Seclusion
by SilverRaindemon
Summary: Sherlock is locked in an unassailable cell by a mighty and dangerous enemy. Will he be able to escape from a perfect lock-up?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock and I don't profit from writing this. Sadly.

**Warning**: this story will contain descriptions or mentions of torture, self-mutilation, probably sex, hence rated M. So read at your own discretion.

Please review, I appreciate your opinions so much!

* * *

The cell was small and excruciatingly medieval looking. And feeling. Sherlock thought someone needed to be really crazy to reproduce the interior of an ancient prison so painstakingly – taking into account the level of verisimilitude with a dirty heap of straw as the only furniture, a disgusting small hole in a corner and damp walls built of rough irregular stones. The floor was stone as well with small pools of water gathering in the depressions. Sherlock was already gratified by chest-wrecking cough and he has only been here for - he consulted his notches on the wall – ten days. His only weapon of sorts was his belt buckle that he spent three days sharpening on a slightly prominent side of one of the stones. Now he used it to count the days – although his inner clock was faltering – he could see the change of night and day in a tiny slit of a window high above under the ceiling. He considered climbing up there at first but then calculated that at most he would be able to force only his fingers through it – and as this particular cell was practically under the roof – he won't be able to see anything except for the sky as well.

He knew that he wasn't the only prisoner in the castle and he also assumed the cells were on each floor – it wasn't probable that some would just shift the common position of the cells in the cellar to the one in the attic. No, in all probability the whole castle was full of prisoners. Sherlock shook his tangled and dirty curls in wonder. This criminal organization was so immense that late Moriarty would probably eat his heart out from sheer envy.

Pacing the cell the consulting detective marveled at his own stupidity. He tended to forget all about safety once he was on the right track. Usually Dr. Watson managed to set him right of course, he was his safety net. But this was in the past, now John was married to Mary and joined Sherlock to assist with the cases increasingly less often. And Sherlock couldn't blame him for that although he missed his blogger immensely and 221b in Baker street felt so empty and boring most of the time. This was another reason for Sherlock's carelessness. He was so glad when a case came up, so relieved that the oppressing boredom was alleviated for a while that he plunged in the search without any second thought. Which, as it turned out, had been a huge mistake. But who could tell that a rather simple case of a crooked man with a trained mongoose will suddenly turn into a thin thread leading the sleuth to a monstrous revelation of criminal network that could impress even Mycroft. Not that he had time to inform his brother or anyone else.

Sherlock turned for an umpteenth time and found that one spot near the left wall that looked a little bit less damp than the rest of the floor. He curled against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest for ephemeral warmth and tentatively rested his shoulder against the wall. He didn't feel like doing anything, although his wounds healed he was considerably weaker from the fever and cough and boredom now. But his mind screamed for some occupation so he began to scrape the cement between two stones as he had been doing for several days already. He was sure he must be watched via some hidden camera – as the door was solid metal and lacked any shutters so it was opened once a day to let in two armed men in masks with food and water. Even if he was watched it seemed his captors didn't care as no one tried to search him to take the buckle away. The cement was crumbling too slowly but it was better than nothing. In fact Sherlock was close to giving up at some point but then he heard a voice coming from the other side of the wall. It took him several hours to make sure he wasn't hallucinating and another day to make sure that as he deepened the tiny opening between two stones the voice was heard more and more clearly. He still couldn't make out any words, but he was pretty much sure there were two voices rather than one – and both were female.

While his hands were routinely scraping the barely yielding cement Sherlock's thoughts returned to his first and last encounter with the prison master. He was thrown on a dark crimson carpet (good choice, Sherlock was bleeding profusely, and he couldn't be the first one lying on this carpet in such a state) in front of a short plump man wearing a ridiculously plush sweatsuit. A round bald head was glistening with beads of perspiration. A benign smile seemed glued to his face and all in all he gave an impression of a sweet family man just out of the gym and soon to be on his way home to wife and kids. But Sherlock's good eye (the one not swelled close from a direct blow) ran across the plush Humpty Dumpty and realized that the Grand Inquisitor was just a schoolgirl compared to this man. One detail was especially clear for Sherlock – as it was right at his eyelevel – the boots of the man were on a high platform. And the platform was splattered with fresh blood.

"Well, well", - the man purred, smiling, his eyes were sliding along Sherlock's injured body (lots of bruises and cuts, several bone fractures, shoulder dislocated, nothing really dangerous). " What have we got here?"

"Who," Sherlock tried to speak calmly but his voice was shaking from pain, "Who not what."

"Ooh, trying to preserve our dignity, aren't we?" The plump man giggled excitedly. "Well, Mister Holmes, I am delighted to inform you that you have to say goodbye to your dignity – and the rest of the world as well. We can't have you poking and prying. Any other man couldn't have done any harm alone – but you are so special, aren't you, Mister Holmes? Poor Jim Moriarty should have known better. "

The man curiously prodded Sherlock's knee with his bloody boot. "You will stay with us, Sherlock," he sighed lustily, "I don't promise your sanity stays intact as you probably understand you own value. Still we can't kill you. As simple as that would be, your brother could make some trouble to us. We don't need that. " He turned to the masked guards, "Take him away."

Sherlock hissed at the memory, still humiliated and overpowered. There were too many of them and he didn't care enough to be carrying a gun. His hand slipped and the buckle suddenly tore a large chunk of cement out of the wall. He clearly heard the voice now, velvety and low, bored and almost disgusted, "Amber, I can't hear any more of that, please do shut up!"

The second voice was more high-pitched and almost whining, pleading, "Nickie, I am so afraid, what would they do to my daughter?"

"We've been here for five days," the first voice replied, Sherlock suddenly realizing he was holding his breath not to miss a single note of that rich low timbre. "And over that five days I have told you about 125 times that my name is Dominique and I would really appreciate if you call me by my real name not some affectionate diminutive that people seem to think I have to be called by."

All of a sudden Sherlock was completely taken over by an urgent wish to call that woman Dominique and feel how that name rolls off his lips. He tried to shrug this feeling off and thought he spent too much time in this dirty and lonely cell. His unaffected asexual self was for some reason unmade by this terrifying seclusion. Damp unchanging walls and the scent of his own dirt and urine made him turn his deductions on himself. And what was slowly unraveling in front of his inner vision were his own feelings – never inexistent – but suppressed for too long.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock mentally shook himself, gripping his sanity tightly and struggling not to slip in the dark abyss that was always present deep inside his too complex and overprotected from emotions personality.

"I don't understand how he could have done that to me," Amber's voice lamented, "It just doesn't make sense why he would use his position to take away my baby. Nickie, I just can't see why he would do that."

The lower voice growled in frustration, "Your ex-husband jumped at the opportunity, why be surprised? He stalked you for long enough for you to see his intentions. " Amber protested, "But he could have talked to me, explained how he felt."

Sherlock practically felt Dominique rolling her eyes in disbelief. He almost did it himself, Amber seemed so pedestrian. She gave him more reason to think so by sniffing, "They aren't letting us go, they will kill us, I will never see my baby again."

"Oh give me a break," Dominique stated clearly, "Why should I repeat myself again and again? I told you we were taken by men in masks, blindfolded immediately, we have no idea where we are – and each time they take me out to question – they blindfold me again – whereas you still see only men in masks. If they intended to kill us – they wouldn't have to hide their faces."

Sherlock hemmed approvingly. Dominique pleasantly surprised him again by adding, "Although I am not sure where exactly we are I tend to believe we are still in Hampshire. They were transporting us not long enough even to get to Berkshire."

_Exactly_, Sherlock thought and as silence settled behind the wall, began scraping again. He needed to make sure he wouldn't miss any part of their conversation. If he was getting out of here at all he might do better with an accomplice. He sighed, _but seems I will have to deal with a burden as well._

It took him another ten hours to deepen the dent so that he could hear any movement behind the wall. He also made an improvised plug out of straw and dirt to hide the crack in the wall. Even if they didn't watch him via a hidden camera, the wardens entered the cell each morning to bring the food – so precautions were necessary.

Sherlock was examining his bloodied hands covered in scratches and calluses when he heard Amber's screams. He remembered several hours ago he had heard the door to the next cell open and close. He deduced Dominique was taken out to be questioned again – and it seemed that this time she was tortured as well.

"Oh my God! What have they done to you?" Sherlock winced, this Amber was driving him crazy. He couldn't even imagine what intelligent Dominique had to do with such a hysterical girl in the first place. It appeared Dominique had hard time remembering it herself, "How does it look like? Certainly not like they tried to force-feed me marshmallows."

"There are cuts all over your hands," Amber began weeping, "Why are they doing this? Why are they hurting you?" Sherlock clearly heard Dominique grind her teeth. "They want the key to the code, what else? They got tired of simply hitting me and pulling my hair, and they can see lie detector isn't working on me – thanks to our gallant British intelligence." Dominique sighed, "And even if it did it would take them an eternity to get it out of me by yes/no questions. Oh, stop crying, I beg you. I have something more interesting to do other than comfort you."

Judging by the Amber's gasp she was shocked by this declaration of her literally bleeding friend. And Sherlock was intrigued beyond measure when he heard slow steps approaching the wall behind which he was curled near the eavesdropping dent. A subtle rustling sound told him Dominique was sliding down the wall, then a little thud hinted she sat down. And then he heard her voice so clearly and close near his ear as if nothing separated them at all "I heard you scraping for the last 12 hours or so. I think you started earlier but I couldn't hear you then. So did you get anywhere with that?" Sherlock cleared his throat but at first his vocal cords still refused to cooperate after so many days of silence. After a barely heard rasp came out he swore mentally, gathered some saliva in his mouth and swallowed to moisten the cords. This time he managed to speak intelligibly "I think we can get out if we work together". There was a long pause behind the wall, then Dominique simply whispered, "I am listening.'


	3. Chapter 3

Since the very childhood, the thing Dominique loved most of all in the whole wide world was text. Letters combined into words and weaved into sentences charmed and fascinated her. She started reading when she barely reached four after she was shown the letters a couple of times by her very busy mother. Never again had her mother any trouble with finding an occupation for Dominique – all she had to do was provide a book her daughter hadn't read before.

She got through school with obvious ease, although she cared only for languages and mathematics - by then she had discovered any written signs attracted her, not only letters. Dominique got into King's College at Cambridge and majored in linguistics without a second thought however and after graduation, having four fluently spoken foreign languages under her belt, she was carefully picked up by the British intelligence service. The British Intelligence has been very lucky with taking on such an employee.

Dominique was a born cryptographer. Indeed in the modern world cryptography was all about mathematics and computer engineering but still far away from the public eye behind the scenes of grand politics, such experts in linguistics and lexicography as Dominique were still precious. The codes she created herself made the spies of other intelligences weep like babies and tear their hair off. These codes were indispensable for elegant moves in the game that even more than 90 percent of the British government was unaware of. And the thing was – they couldn't be quickly brute-forced by a computer, because Dominique made them very illogical, unlocked only by a very special key.

Dominique spent five blissful years working in the very heart of British secret services and she was completely happy. Her mother kept on nagging about grandchildren but Dominique has just never met a man who could equal her intellectually and be nice enough to provoke any feelings – and she had no intention to settle for less. Her small flat in the centre of London was full of books, she had a couple of trusted friends and she smiled when she went to work – so she was content. Somehow she got a reputation as being heartless – but the fact that she almost never showed her emotions didn't mean she had none. She just didn't see it fit to express her feelings to all and sundry. Of course if she knew that several largest world universities were trying to reach her to engage in the decryption of some dead languages, she probably wouldn't be that content – but her chief effectively protected her from this distracting knowledge.

It all started on a cloudy morning in May when Dominique got a call from her former classmate, Amber. She had been trying to break this particular acquaintance for years but was reluctant to bluntly tell Amber she never wanted to see her again – and her classmate wasn't bright enough to take hints. Dominique pitied her, a single mother, suffering under the oppression of her relatives in a large family house in Hampshire, driving an hour each day to get to her work in a small local college. That is why she gave in from time to time and came to visit, sensing that Amber was really happy to see her.

Dominique never liked cars, she rode a powerful bike. She wasn't really a beauty by the classic model canons, she was rather tall, strongly built and always dressed like she didn't give a damn. Jeans and shirts were her all-time favourites. She was in fact very attractive, with clear aristocratic lines of her face, piercing dark grey eyes and long silky chestnut hair, but few noticed that as - again – she didn't give a damn about her appearance, always wore glasses and strangled her hair by tying it up in a horse tail.

Approximately an hour later Dominique rode off A3 road and in another half hour got to her friend's house. No sooner had she parked her bike and took off the helmet than she turned up right in the middle of an ugly domestic scandal. Dominique hated these things, that was one of the reasons she stopped almost all communication with her own mother in the first place. Later she would realize this was what threw her off-guard that day and made her forget all her MI5 training a bit. She was not a field agent, for God's sake, she worked in a comfy room with her monstrous computer and played with symbols and letters and numbers all day long. And despite all her seeming lack of emotionality she could be deeply shaken by waves of hostility rocking around Amber's house.

Finally Dominique and Amber left, the latter's child remaining with her mother. They talked sitting not far away from the house, closer to the road. Although 'talked' is too strong a word for Amber pouring her heart out complaining about her child's father trying to take the baby away from her and Dominique making one-syllable comments from time to time. Then Amber mentioned that her ex had actually gotten a rather significant position in the British government lately and Dominique felt unpleasant shivers running up and down her limbs. Something was definitely not the way it should be. It was a coincidence one could hardly ignore.

She continued squinting out over the road for another two hours as Amber wagged her tongue on the same topic with insignificant variations. _It's my own fault actually_, Dominique thought, _I put a stop to all her questions concerning my own wellbeing, she simply has no choice but to go on and on about her problems. _

Her thoughts stilled to a halt as two black cars with tinted windows sped towards them suddenly appearing at the turn of the road. Dominique jumped to her feet and tugged Amber by her sleeve, "Run, come one, no questions, to the forest." But Amber lost precious time first by turning to watch the road, then throwing herself to the house, screaming something about protecting her child. Dominique couldn't leave her – not only on the account of the long tales about maniacal ex-husband – she also did care about her gentle blonde friend after all. Another minute lost in fruitless efforts to convince Amber to run and they were struggling with half a dozen men in masks who eventually got them in the trunks of both cars separately, tied and blindfolded. Lying in the tight smelly space and trying not to bump her head too hard when the car was bobbing on the rocks – clear sign they were off the main road and into the wilds on some cross-country track - Dominique was wondering why none of Amber's relatives came out of the house at the sound of her screams. She came to the most logical conclusion they were warned and possibly threatened – or bribed beforehand. She also decided to keep this conclusion to herself.


	4. Chapter 4

The first day in the cell was a psychological nightmare for Dominique. Her childish claustrophobia suddenly returned to life – but Amber's hysterics was much harder to endure. The little blonde kept crying and calling her baby, then beating on the door and asking to let her go. And it went on and on in circles. Dominique stayed curled on a plain wooden bench, one of the two present in the cell. At first she tried comforting Amber but then gave up and instead started thinking as best she could. She soon figured out that Amber's husband should have been connected with the organization that wished to kidnap Dominique and might have used his influence to make them kidnap his ex-wife as well. Dominique even smirked at the thought – _Oh, you are going to kidnap her anyway, be a lamb and please rid me of my ex-wife while you're on it, will you?_

Dominique also had no illusions as to the reason why she was kidnapped herself. Her chief warned her of a very special task for which one of her latest codes would be used. It was so secret that he himself could provide only vague impression of its importance. He basically only blew out his cheeks and waved his hands. The code was one of Dominique's favorite ones – it would take a really long time to brute-force it, as the sequence of coded letters was based on a line from one of Shakespeare's sonnets intertwined with a not very popular pangram – so you had to know both to find the logic of the code. This fact lead Dominique to believe these particular bad guys simply wished to take apart a very special business of the British government. And they wished her to tell them the code.

She was rather surprised when they didn't start with torture at once. She couldn't understand why they would think she would give up after a couple of punches. Then she kind of recalled she was a woman after all and they had seen Amber's reaction, so supposedly they decided she was as sweet and gentle as her friend. Four days later they were obviously out of temper – Dominique assumed they were running out of time. They even tried a polygraph which was utmost stupidity, surely they hadn't thought this through well enough. It was after that questioning when Dominique heard the faint scraping sound. They tore off the blindfold and hurled her inside the cell so that she landed flat on the floor, Amber burst out crying again at once. Dominique opened her mouth to start shouting and that was when this steady barely audible grinding attracted her attention for the first time.

She didn't believe her ears actually. The seclusion was tiring her out, making her insecure, and Amber's presence didn't help but made keeping her sanity really hard. So she pretended to fall asleep, waited till Amber would cry herself to sleep as well, then slowly crawled to the wall and listened very carefully. Several hours later she was sure it's not a hallucination. Scraping wasn't so steady as she thought at first. Dominique could hear faint muttering when the strength of the stranger behind the wall faltered, when hands shook and fingers slipped. She could hear muffled clinks when the tool of the stranger fell on the floor for several times. Dominique drank these sounds like fresh water and began to hope beyond reason.

She was dragged to her feet and out of her sleep and realized that she had drifted off hunched on the floor near the wall where she had heard the sounds. Amber was awake but not screaming for a change, _Thank Gods for that, I am tired of her wailing. She must have gotten used to me being taken away and returned unhurt. Of course they almost don't beat me on the face, so she can't see how blue I am underneath my clothes._

Blindfolded again, Dominique was quickly led, almost carried, along the very familiar route. _Twelve steps straight ahead, four flights of stairs down, that's two floors, turn to the left, six steps, again to the left, twenty steps, here we are._ _Sure, they tie me to the chair again. Nice soft chair, almost a good old friend by now._

The familiar syrupy voice came from behind Dominique "Miss Celtion, we meet again". Dominique shrugged as best she could with her arms tightly secured to the back of the chair, "You can hardly call that a meeting as I haven't actually even seen you." A tired chuckle suggested to Dominique the man finally lost his patience. A flash of pain across the back of her hand confirmed her suspicions. And then she realized what exactly he decided to do in order to get the necessary information. _A razor blade of all things! _But how could he know, where would they get this kind of data, it was never reported, she was never taken to hospital. She was too careful that cold autumn of the 17th year of her life. The time when the pain in her soul was so overwhelming, so unbearable that to feel physical pain instead was a pleasant distraction and almost a cure.

Dominique felt another slash higher on the backside of her wrist and screamed. _Yes, pretty believable, keep it that way, you can't let them know your deep dark secret, can you?_ Darkness and clear exquisite pain were drugging her, making her drown in half-forgotten memories. Long suppressed self-hatred and insecurity were dancing a happy jig inside her head. She suddenly heard her mother's words again, _Look at yourself! You're hideous, no one will ever love you!_

And she continued to scream, inwardly basking in self-loathing again, so many years later. Something was different this time though. This time she really wanted to live and she put her destructive tendencies to work not against her – but against her captors. _They have to believe I am suffering, have to believe I am ready to give up. But not yet. I need more time to find out who is trying to grind a hole in that fucking wall and if that can get me out of here._

At the back of her head several out-of-place thoughts were swirling. She seemed to understand why this man selected a razor blade – it simply was his personal favorite, he must have considered himself a master and enjoyed splashes of blood. Dominique also realized he must believe all women care about appearance. Why else some time later – _couple of hours, twenty three cuts later – _when she was hoarse from screaming he told the guards to take her away and offered her to think carefully about which part of her body he could mutilate next time if she wouldn't cooperate at last.

On the way back to the cell Dominique thought he had meant her face. He must have meant her face, all women are so afraid to lose their supposed beauty. _Twenty steps straight ahead, turn to the right, six steps, again to the right, four flights of stairs up, twelve steps, here we are._

Once in the cell Dominique noticed how clearly she could hear scraping now, even through Amber's screams, even through the haze of pain pulsating around her hands and arms. It was time to act.

* * *

"Our chances to escape are really next to nothing," Sherlock said. Dominique fidgeted behind the wall judging by the series of tiny noises, "All the more reasons to give it a try" she offered at last.

After Dominique started this weird communication, Amber couldn't be placated, "Who is that? Who are you talking to?" Dominique let out a sigh, "What is your name?" she asked sharply. Sherlock turned a thousand options over in his head and then erased them all with a decisive shake of his head, "Sherlock." Dominique snapped at Amber, "It's Sherlock. Shut up already." Surprisingly it did silence Amber, but Sherlock could just visualize questions flocking in that head. It was unavoidable that soon they would burst out so he decided they couldn't procrastinate any longer.

"The most important thing is to determine whether the same guards enter my cell and yours, I suppose they are the same as it is logical, but still there can be unpleasant surprises here," Sherlock started, "There are several shifts of them understandably, but they seem to work on specific hours as in the morning I always see the same couple bring me food." Dominique cleared her throat, "Well, I think I can understand how you define they are the same ones even with masks on. Is there anything particular on either of them that should be on one of our guards as well?"

Sherlock closed his eyes with abnormal relief, _Good girl_, "He carries a pen in his shirt pocket, always, must be a crossword puzzles lover." Dominique reacted at once, "A green ballpoint pen, probably with a spring and a holder on the side." Relief was obvious in her voice as well. Sherlock mused, "So they have to be the same, well it makes this easier but also much more complicated. Now tell me do you know what Newton's Cradle is?"

Dominique snorted at that, "How dare you!" and then seemed to get back down on the ground, "Sorry, I somehow forgot you know nothing about me."

_Oh, I do_, Sherlock thought but said nothing. She quickly murmured, "Yes, I know what Newton's Cradle is. What would I use that knowledge for?" He smiled a bit, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke, "Lock picking."

Behind the wall curious silence established and Sherlock took it as a signal to proceed, "Or rather lock bumping in fact. The doors of our cells are equipped with standard pin tumbler locks – and although these can't be picked without effort – still they can be open with relative ease. Inside the lock there is a series of spring-loaded pin stacks. There are two elements in each: one that touches the key when it is inserted, and the other that is spring driven. The lock can be opened when the tops of the first and the bottoms of the second are aligned which allows to turn the key cylinder. Now it is believed that to open such a lock a special bumping key is necessary. Whereas I have successfully proved that practically any flat metal object if manipulated carefully and exactly can be used to bump all of the bottom pins in the lock and they in turn will transmit the force to the top ones while remaining in place."

"Oh," Dominique realized, "Newton's Cradle indeed." Sherlock joined his fingertips under his chin and felt something close to contentedness for the first time since he found himself in the cell. Dominique was really able to understand him and it was … unusual, certainly not boring. He even managed to forget about her annoying friend for a while. "So even though the moment when the bottom pins jump is really short," detective continued vigorously, "it is enough to align the pins and if you turn the cylinder at the same time – the lock will be open."

Amber chose this moment to reveal she was listening carefully as well. She sobbed, "But it's impossible! To apply the force with such precision and turn the cylinder right when it is time… and you said yourself a special bumping key is needed." Sherlock lifted his left brow with such a snap that for a second he could have sworn they should have heard it behind the wall. Dominique slowly and loudly breathed in and out, "Listen, if something is difficult – it doesn't mean it is impossible."

"But how are you even going to get the pen?" Amber nagged. Sherlock thought his brow may soon reach his hairline and stay there forever. A pity that the wall made it necessary to speak. He was sure his facial expression wouldn't be wasted.

Dominique breathed once again, and again, then roughly exhaled and a slap on the wall told Sherlock her self-control was fading, but then she managed to calm and said, "I'll think of something."


	5. Chapter 5

It felt more like years than hours have gone since they started to talk, it must have been at least a decade since Amber stopped interfering at last and let them speak uninterruptedly. Dominique felt the kind of elation that was for sure unheard of for someone in such a tight spot as she was. But it felt so incredibly good to talk to someone who not only matched her in intelligence but surpassed her so far. Although Sherlock seemed to be interested in – and thus knew things only in certain areas and literary fiction wasn't one of them – but they both could go on and on about codes, ciphers and logics, and their common interests weren't limited by that as well. There were many things Sherlock seemed to have first-hand knowledge of and Dominique seemed to have as profound theoretical base thanks to extensive and not always fastidious reading.

Dominique couldn't recall another time she had ever spoken with a man with such ease and confidence, there wasn't a single awkward pause, there always seemed to be more topics for discussions, one thing led to another – and only once a painful thought appeared out of Dominique's subconscious making her take a look at the situation on the third hand. For a second she thought it was really ridiculous to enjoy a chat with a total stranger so much, being in a prison cell separated by the wall and having no idea how he looked like at all. But Dominique shooed this thought away as swiftly as she could. She was perfectly aware of the fact she may not live to see the day after tomorrow – so she was intending to enjoy her perhaps last day on earth to the fullest.

It really was amazing to communicate with Sherlock. Even the seeming total lack of emotions of this man didn't scare Dominique off. It felt a relief to meet someone who could value a pure battle of minds that gave birth to the whirlpool of friendly argument. They totally disagreed on some point speaking about Lima syndrome – Dominique wouldn't for the love of God be able to tell how they came to talk about that at all when only minutes before they had been eagerly discussing the difference between the modern and historical fencing. But even when they disagreed and neither would concede, it just felt so right, they mentally bowed to each other, accepted that their opinions differed and went on to a very precious moment when Sherlock told her with some palpable wonder in his voice that he usually couldn't tolerate opinions different from his own. Dominique smiled happily and suggested it was because she didn't simply offer an opinion but could supply lots of arguments for it. Sherlock retorted that maybe it was because she didn't lower the IQ of the whole castle when expressing her opinion.

They didn't notice when night fell but suddenly Dominique realized sun rays were shooting through the tiny window under the ceiling of their cell. The realization made her abruptly shut up in the middle of the sentence. Soon the guards would be bringing the food. And approximately an hour later she would be taken to be questioned again. Wave after wave her fears and apprehensions held at bay for this whole time swept her away. She became painfully aware that this time they may torture her in such a way that she gives up, they could rape her, she may fail to get the pen – or the simplest of all, not having Sherlock's brilliant experience, even having retrieved the pen from her guards she may not manage to pick the lock.

Alarmed Sherlock had already asked her why she was silent for several times when she got a grip on herself at last. "It's time," she croaked with effort, "They will come soon, we need to be careful not to raise any suspicions, so probably that's all for the talking now." She could hear him breathing loudly as if he was struggling with contradictory thoughts. Then he said, "Just…" he paused, cleared his throat, "You are right," he managed at last. And both were silent then. Dominique felt her hair stand on end when the key was turned in the lock of the cell. First when food and water were brought, and there was Amber, unusually serious, making her eat something, and then she chewing something that tasted like cotton wool. And later the key turned for the second time and she summoned all the inner strength she had ever possessed and made the final decision.

They blindfolded her as usual, but this time she knew where to look when she was standing in front of the guards – and there it was, a thin green pen faintly gleaming when the man carrying it in the front pocket of his shirt moved – the centre of all her hopes at the moment. Then they began to move, just the same old route which she had been counting on. _Twelve steps straight ahead, four flights of stairs down, that's two floors_, but this time they only were three flights down when she suddenly swung her body to the left, managed to catch one of the guards legs with both her own and with infinite satisfaction felt all three of them were falling. She took the brunt of the fall mainly on herself, one of the guards going on top of her like a sack of potatoes. Breath was knocked out of her lungs and she felt sharp pain in her side and the back of her head but she just managed to almost unnoticeably sweep her hands along the chest of the guard and then as they were rolling down the stairs forcefully stuck the invaluable pen down her own shirt between her breasts. She brought it down with too much pressure, the tip of the pen broke her skin – but she got what she wanted, the pen secured under her bra – and she just had to hope her black shirt would hide the drops of blood.

* * *

my best friend made an illustration for this chapter - if anyone is interested - it's out there on tumblr (replace spaces with dots)

http:/raindemon tumblr com/post/22071638995/this-is-the-first-ever-illustration-to-my-own


	6. Chapter 6

This dangerous escapade earned Dominique several cruel blows from the guards as well, after they scrambled back to their feet and dragged her up as well. She even whined – very naturally, as the fall did hurt – something along the lines of "Sorry, didn't mean it, please don't hurt me." Her pleas only made them laugh which wasn't really a promising sign, she decided. Anyway it seemed their fall took them to the necessary floor as the rest of the path was routine _turn to the left, six steps, again to the left, twenty steps, here we are. _

Something however was wrong from the very beginning. Instead of being tied to the familiar chair Dominique felt her hands handcuffed behind her back, instead of hearing a treacle-sweet voice addressing her she was surrounded by a complete silence at first. And the guards never left this time. They kept holding her by her shoulders from both sides. She was listening carefully, trying to get any clue at all for what will be done to her next. Fear was overwhelming, she was always afraid of this moment of uncertainty. The actual pain was easier to endure than the dragged out moments of waiting when she couldn't even be sure that what comes next would be pain. It turned out this time was not really about pain at all.

Dominique heard quick abrupt steps and an unfamiliar cold voice of someone who is used to giving orders. "You know why you're here," it wasn't a question but Dominique still nodded carefully. "Will you tell us the key?" Dominique shook her head as carefully and the next second she was on her knees and plunged head first in ironically tepid water. She panicked at once and lost some of the precious air that she hadn't managed to inhale much in the first place. _Well, that's just great, _was going on and on in her head like a tune on a broken CD. _Just great, just great, just great. _Her lungs were burning, begging for a small gulp of air, her whole body was struggling in vain against two strong men pressing her down. The thick noise in her ears was eerily beginning to remind voices. She had decided to give up and breathe a second before she was extracted from water.

"The key," her new torturer repeated monotonously, Dominique wasn't really paying attention, drawing shallow gulps of air, trying to fill her lungs to the brim in advance. And down she went again, feeling water against her skin being almost resilient, in fact time itself was stretching. She could have sworn she spent a week at least under water, counting last molecules of air, dreading the moment when it was not enough, beginning to panic anew, hating herself for this, because she knew perfectly well it was coming, every time, every submersion would be the same, but the fear will still be kindled anew without restrictions or any possibility to control or diminish it.

It appeared this new guy was rather inventive. So in between the dips Dominique was beaten and kicked, several times she got under water without any oxygen in her lungs at all. And she spluttered and coughed, then threw up. At first she screamed when sharp boots landed on her ribs, then only groaned. Still this wasn't the right way to make her speak. She was thinking tiredly, _The previous guy was on the right way, guess I am terribly lucky he hadn't shared his plans on cutting my face with a razor with this new guy._ And in a strange way she was really incredibly lucky. Dominique realized this in full not when at last an order was barked and she was swiftly carried away on the oh-so-well-known way, _Twenty steps straight ahead, turn to the right, six steps, again to the right, four flights of stairs up, twelve steps, here we are. _She realized it in full not when she was on the floor of the cell and a quick mental check with an inevitable background of Amber's keening over her showed no bones seemed to be broken. She realized how lucky she was when her shaking fingers touched the front of her soaked through black shirt and found that not only it was still fully buttoned up but that the pen was still securely stuck between her breasts under the bra.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't feeling antsy – no, he felt literally like someone had peeled the skin off him and then stuck it back with a load of ants secured underneath. He was itchy and shivering, his muscles kept cramping, cough became worse and tore at his chest. The cell had never seemed that small and stuffy, the walls were closing in on him and he couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was what Dominique was going through at the moment and if she really was as strong-willed as she seemed to be. He could imagine all too well how little time she had left before she would have to either give them the key or suffer from severe mutilation.

He coughed again wincing at the sharp pain engulfing his lungs. Several more days and he wouldn't need any help at all save for medical one – which was just another thing that he would never get in this cell. His captors would most probably be head over heels with happiness if he died of a natural cause. Even Mycroft wouldn't find a reason to be suspicious – he had always told his little brother how careless he was about his health.

Sherlock was never any good at waiting and after long days of draining seclusion his patience was worn especially thin. He caught himself when he started to basically run around the cell, and gained back the control of his body. He slumped against the wall to the next cell and strained his ears. He missed his coat so much - not only for the warmth it gave, just wished desperately for something cherished to have around. His captors seemed to know how much value he put in that single item of clothing as they took it away at once after he had been brought into the cell. Sherlock wondered if it had been destroyed.

All he could hear behind the wall were Amber's sighs and a slight susurrus that betrayed her restless squirming on the bench. After another hour of listening to this Sherlock was on the verge of doing something reckless although he breathed evenly and didn't shiver anymore. Only his mind was running in circles, his exterior was absolutely impassive as usual. Sherlock entertained himself creating an – enormously long – list of all tortures known to the mankind from the ancient times to present days. And when the door to the next cell opened and he heard a wet plop that accompanied Dominique's fall on the floor he knew precisely what she could have been subjected to.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock leaned into the wall with his whole body trying to make out what Dominique was murmuring but Amber's screaming was drowning all other sounds. Sherlock made sure the guards left and locked the door to the next cell, then hissed, "Shut up and let her speak!" Amber, predictably, started to shout even louder in indignation but then suddenly Sherlock couldn't hear her anymore. He closed his eyes in desperation. Seconds ticked and he wished he were on the other side of the wall and could see for himself what Dominique did to silence Amber and why she hadn't still spoken herself. A low but steady voice from behind the wall rekindled his spirits, "I got it," Dominique said simply, "but it's really a pity now I have no previous criminal record." Sherlock's laugh was half a growl, he hated the whole situation where he could do nothing to help – and he had no idea what to say to support Dominique as well. _What do ordinary people say at such times? Don't worry, even if you don't manage they would only torture you into submission and kill your friend? Don't worry, it will be fine even if we all die in this ridiculous castle? _Sherlock didn't like any of the options so he just said, "Remember Newton's Cradle, will you?", he considered the situation again and added, "And if you succeed don't try to unlock my cell in the same way, you won't have time. Find another option." He thought bitterly, _If you decide to help me at all. _Sherlock held no illusions, he knew betrayal was a natural phenomenon even between people who were very dear to each other – what could he hope for to get from this almost virtual accomplice? Dominique didn't answer to that which only strengthened his suspicions that she would leave him behind. _She is so smart how can she possibly do otherwise? It is obvious staying here when the door is unlocked is lessening any chance to escape. I would much rather bet on running alone and then returning with help than trying to run away all together. _Sherlock felt himself going limp against the wall. He was exhausted and felt frustratingly helpless.

* * *

Dominique bit her lower lip and moved her fingers for the thousandth time. To break the metal strip off the pen was the simplest part of the plan. Convincing Amber to be silent and trust her was more difficult. It helped that she still seemed shocked after Dominique covered her mouth with her wet and bloodied hand to make Amber shut up. Now she sulked on her bench but was thankfully quiet. Sherlock didn't speak behind the wall as well. Dominique drew a slow breath when another barely closed cut was split open with the strain of her muscles. She wiped the blood off her fingers as clean as she could but they were becoming slippery from sweat. The thin metal strip seemed entirely useless. _A tiny bump and turn. Bump and turn. Another one. _She gave up counting the attempts long ago. She knew an hour or so had passed already. Maybe more. Maybe less. But her shirt had dried completely. The whole world disappeared, there were only her bloodied hands, a thin metal strip and the lock. There was no hope, no fear or excitement – that all was long gone. She moved her fingers and thought about Sherlock's words. _Another option. You don't believe we would take you with us, do you? Rather you don't believe me. I might as well take this as a compliment, shows you recognize me as an intellectual human being. You think a smart person would run and then come back with help rather than try to let out someone else at once. You would do it that way yourself because it's only logical. That's what you are – pure logics placed in a human body by mistake. Why do I want to cry when I think you have no feelings at all?_

She shivered and her fingers slightly faltered. The lock cylinder turned. Her brain didn't even register this at first, she continued turning the strip until the cylinder could not be moved anymore and then stared at the completely unlocked door for another minute trying to figure out what's wrong. Then she was hit by a wave of intense emotions so hard she almost fainted. Dizzy and shaken, Dominique turned and found Amber asleep. And then she almost didn't think, her body was captured by some primal basic instincts she couldn't account for. Dominique stood up, stretched a bit, wincing from pain, peeped out into the corridor opening the door a crack and then soundlessly slid out of the cell leaving the still unlocked door closed tightly behind. Adrenaline was rushing in her ears and she knew she had barely minutes before the planets moved or solar prominence ceased or whatever happened to end this enormous unbelievable streak of luck.

The corridor was empty, the door to the guards' room at the end of it was slightly open. Dominique crawled to the door and peered inside. One of the guards was asleep, the second stared at a laptop wearing headphones and sitting half-turned away from the door. Dominique decided when she got out she would certainly remember to believe in at least some God and provide loads of thanks to that caring deity that made all this possible. Realizing she was in no condition for fighting (and that her training in hand-to-hand combat really wasn't that extensive) Dominique quickly searched the room with her eyes and noticed a gun lying on the edge of the table. That was simply some kind of weird Christmas, she thought.

It basically took several quick steps to the table, a hit on the head of one of the guards (she had to hold the gun with both hands as she couldn't trust her grip now), then a quick step to the side of the couch and another blow on the temple of the one which was asleep. Then she mercilessly repeated the procedure, she had no time to tie them or anything and she couldn't risk them regaining consciousness too early. Noticing a set of screens with video streaming from CCTV cameras she thanked all the Gods again for the very existence of lazy and overly confident guards watching movies instead of the corridors. Then she stuffed one of the guards' cell phones in her pocket, turned off the other one and gathered the gun of the second guard as well, checking both were loaded. The single key that was hanging on the wall (indeed, why bother with different locks for different cells) followed the cell phone in her pocket and Dominique noiselessly returned to her own cell. It was time to wake Amber and she dreaded it.

* * *

Sherlock was so concentrated on catching the slightest noises caused by the metal strip in the lock that he almost missed the moment when Dominique stirred, he heard several steps. His lips had already moved forming a question when he heard the unmistakable sound of the door being open and then quickly closed again. And then there was silence. Sherlock was astonished. He could still hear Amber's gentle snoring which meant Dominique left the cell and her friend in it. He was taken aback, it was one of the rare occasions in his life when he couldn't really make anything of the situation. He tried to analyze these uncalled-for emotions. _In the end she did what I advised her to, even more, it is really wise to leave her friend behind so that she wouldn't slow her down. She acted as I myself probably would. Why does it feel like I am disappointed in her somehow? _Sherlock finally decided to blame these incomprehensible emotions on the effect the prolonged seclusion had on his psyche when he heard the door open again. He froze, unable to believe his ears for once. Quick steps sounded across the cell then he heard muffled sounds as if Amber woke up suddenly and tried to speak but her mouth was stopped. Dominique whispered, "Do not say a word, do not dare move if I tell you not to, do not do anything of your own accord at all if you wish your baby to see you in one piece, understood?"

Sherlock thought Amber must have provided some sort of a sign as then he heard two pairs of feet lightly pace to the door and the door was closed. And almost immediately he heard the key turn in the lock of his cell and the door was swung open. Two girls were standing on the threshold in front of bewildered Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Dominique had secretly hoped he would turn out blatantly unattractive. Then it would be so much simpler to convince herself this all was just a delusion, a strange obsession caused by the derangement of her mind after all the sufferings she had been through. _Let him be bald, _she thought fumbling with the key, _let him be plain, let him be short. Let me be a hypocrite who cares about appearances. _She pushed the door open, froze for a second, then tore her gaze off the doorknob with an effort and found herself staring in the pair of the most unbelievably beautiful greenish-blue eyes. Sherlock rose from the floor, uncoiling all his six feet of pale thin limbs crowned by a disheveled tangled mop of black curls and Dominique had to swallow her heart back as it was beating in her throat threatening to jump out and wreck like a doomed ship on the sharp cliffs of his cheekbones. She felt keenly just how very tired she was. This was just too much, too much experience both physical and emotional pressed in too little time. Dominique decided it was high time to stop thinking and feeling and go on acting. There will be time and a place for self-analysis and self-pity.

She handed one of the guns to Sherlock trying not to meet his painfully piercing gaze again. Then she passed him the cell phone as well. "Call whoever you think can help and let's get the hell out of here," Dominique suggested.

* * *

When the door opened and Sherlock jumped to his feet he was almost afraid to look at her so he decided to check Amber first. A short blonde girl with dirty hair and puffed red eyelids turned out to be as uninteresting in person as she was a voice behind the wall. A couple of glances told Sherlock much more he would ever care to know about her – and he deleted all of this information at once. Then he just had to look directly at Dominique and the unfamiliar incomprehensible emotions overwhelmed him again. Sherlock forcefully dismissed any feelings, decisively concentrating on plain facts. She was tall, about 5 feet 7 inches, thick uncombed mane of long chestnut hair only just dried after the ordeal she had gone through. Dominique seemed a walking paradox – a bit too strongly built for a woman, sturdy though slender, looking so dependable, infallible – _just like John_ - and yet there was such pain and weariness in her tender dark grey eyes. Her shoulders were rather broad – but the wrists (covered in cuts still oozing blood) were remarkably thin and graceful, the face was exquisitely beautiful and fragile with hollowed cheeks and unusually curved eyebrows. She was so interesting; he felt he could simply watch her for weeks on end, discovering things, analyzing, deducing.

Sherlock realized he was staring but managed to move his eyes away from Dominique's face only when she offered him a gun and then a cell phone. Reality crashed into his stupor. They had so little time and here he was wasting it. Cursing inwardly Sherlock grabbed the gun and released the safety catch noticing Dominique did the same. He motioned them into the cell, it was more secure to make the calls from here. Dominique pulled Amber inside and closed the door. He was thankful when she turned away from him and put her ear to the door, obviously watching out for any disturbance. Amber was somber and kept silent for which Sherlock also felt he was grateful to Dominique.

The phone signal wasn't a really good one but the call to Mycroft went through, _We're so lucky we're not in a cellar after all, _Sherlock thought. His brother seemed worried but was as ever efficient, no extra questions. Although Sherlock could see lots of questions coming later. Another quick call, to Lestrade and Sherlock didn't hang up this time, allowing the signal to be tracked. He left the phone on the floor and faced Dominique again. She was eyeing him curiously, "Any idea where the exit is?"

Sherlock gave her a small quivering grin, "Approximately. We will just run as fast we can and shoot anyone we meet along the way." Amber squealed at that. Dominique shot an imperious look at her and the squeal died at once. "Keep behind me," she told her blonde friend. Sherlock almost sniggered. The situation was quickly becoming ridiculous, perhaps they would do better if they simply waited for help in the cell. But he was so bored of this seclusion that when provided a choice Sherlock would prefer to be shot rather than spend another hour or so in these walls. Mischievously looking Dominique seemed to be thinking along the same way.

They got into the corridor, Dominique holding Amber's right wrist with her left hand and carrying the gun in the right, muzzle turned up. Sherlock was leading, going very fast and constantly looking around. They got to the stairs and as far as the ground floor without any unpleasant meetings and then there was a rather sincerely surprised guard aiming his gun at them a second too late. Sherlock shot him, the guard screamed, Amber wailed and at once the whole castle was alert and after them.

* * *

The yard around the castle was actually as large as the damn thing itself, Dominique estimated when they ran out followed by stray bullets. She and Sherlock were running side by side and Amber for some reason was constantly lagging behind. They crossed about half of the yard, heading to the forest that was looming to the left of the main entrance when Dominique's conscience woke up suddenly and screamed it was all about Amber, she was the one with the child, she was the one at least someone was going to miss. So the smartest thing Dominique could think of was abruptly turn around, grab Amber's hand and then give her some acceleration by actually throwing her ahead of them and then almost kicking her in the back. Dominique thought then she would never forget the huge saucer-like eyes of Amber as she went past her and ahead gaining speed and unexpectedly rushing off to the edge of the forest like a champion sprinter.

Something brushed along Dominique's shoulder like a very angry bumblebee but she never paid it any attention. Sherlock stumbled coughing and when he saw Amber dart past him to the heart of the forest he breathed, "Goodness, she can run!" It took all her self-possession not to laugh and amusement turned to worry when she realized she couldn't see Amber any more, maybe too much acceleration after all. Dominique panted "We have to divide and catch her, she is panicking, she can get lost," and she swiveled to the right seeing out of the corner of her eye Sherlock doing the same in the opposite direction. Several strides later when branches lashing her face almost got her right eye out Dominique decided she was deviating too far away and turned a bit to the left again. Behind a tall stout oak she suddenly bumped into Sherlock who had obviously decided the same thing. They collided and froze pressed against each other. Dominique realized this was how third-degree burn probably had to feel like. The whole of the front of her body touching Sherlock's felt at the same time on fire and unbelievably numb. She wanted to move and at the same time should someone ask for her right hand at this very moment in return for an opportunity to stay closely pressed against Sherlock in this preposterous way she would give the hand away any time.

Sherlock's eyes looked imploringly into her own and Dominique felt, no, believed, no, imagined, he wanted something she wanted herself as much as she did but then they both were realizing loud stomping behind them were the guards approaching and the branches on the ground were crunching under the feet of their followers and they had to run again and although they were running side by side Dominique made herself believe the look in his eyes was just her imagination. They burst through the undergrowth deeper into the forest, seconds stretched into minutes, the terrifying game of hide-and-seek went on and on. At some point they fell in a dry ditch and then Sherlock rolled, taking her with him, they went under the subtle cover of half-dried leaves heaped against the side of the pit and stayed still, listening. Dominique was torn apart, her lips just inches away from his marble-white strung out neck. Time floated by, their followers forced their way further into the forest, missing them. And then the sound of a helicopter ended this illusion in an unbearably decisive way.

* * *

The castle was surrounded by police cars, ambulances and expensive black cars without any identification. Wailing sirens were adding to the chaos.

"I did worry, you know," Mycroft stated looking at the long line of handcuffed men lying face down – no masks now for a change. Sherlock crinkled his nose almost imperceptibly, an impartial facial impression as ever on. Mycroft was vexed a bit but didn't stop his speculations, "So this time a woman saved you I gather, brother mine," he hemmed sarcastically, "a really extraordinary woman working for – actually – me."

Sherlock's face was visibly distorted at this remark, "She isn't under your direct command," he drawled through the clenched teeth. Mycroft meaningfully rolled his eyes.

Dominique briskly walked past the brothers muttering, "I'd kill for a cigarette right now, I have to smoke". Amber was almost running to keep up with her and exclaiming, "Nickie, don't, you quit smoking, remember?" Sherlock almost smiled seeing Mycroft's shocked expression. Two paramedics ran behind Dominique as well pleading, "Miss, you are bleeding, we have to dress the wound." She tried to wave them away but finally gave up and was led to the ambulance a couple of meters away from the spot where Sherlock was resolutely looking anywhere – at the sky, at the castle, at the invariable brolly –anywhere, in short, but in his brother's eyes. Mycroft seemed not to care, "She is extraordinary indeed, little brother, and…" he hesitated but then continued actually not bothering if Dominique was out of the hearing range, "correct me if I am wrong, don't you seem quite infatuated with her?" Sherlock jerked up his head, "You said once yourself, caring is not an advantage. And even such a prolonged seclusion couldn't change me as much as to make me start caring about anyone."

The paramedic bandaging Dominique's wound in the shoulder must have moved too rashly as she suddenly groaned in pain. The brothers turned simultaneously but saw only Dominique's back disappearing in the ambulance. The doors were closed and the car drove away.

* * *

**Note**: the next - and last - chapter will be in fact rather fluffy fluff and possibly even smutty smut, so if you read this but sexual scenes aren't to your liking - consider this the end of the story.

Also just wanted to say thanks to my wonderful beta and most devoted critic Comawhite. Thank you for going through this with me!

Any reviews at all are very welcome any time.


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as they let her out of the hospital (she put up quite a fight to get rid of psychotherapy sessions) Dominique went straight to work, found out that for five years working non-stop they owed her at least a hundred days of paid vacation but she took only a month of it. Then she went home, locked the door and turned all the phones off. For the first week she only read Jane Austen's novels, wept, lay in the bath for hours and gazed intently at the slowly healing cuts that adorned her hands and arms. When she basically learnt all of Austen's novels by heart she turned the phone on but ignored all the calls from her mother, Amber or her chief. She picked up only when her best friend Kara called and it was Kara whom Dominique agreed to let into her flat another week later. They didn't talk at first, comfortable being together even in silence, listened to some folk music Kara brought and drank wine. After the second bottle of dry white Dominique started speaking. She didn't need to go into details as to what tortures she had gone through as the eloquent red healing marks were going nowhere for a long time yet. She also didn't need to explain to her best friend her eternal search for a man who could match her in all respects. What she needed to say though was why exactly she had been thrown so deep in the abyss of depression.

"He is absolutely perfect, you see," Dominique spoke bitterly, whirling the remains of her wine in a glass, "We have been talking for hours and not for a moment I felt bored, disappointed or had to go down to his level and explain something. My whole life I have been searching for my intellectual equal – but Sherlock is oh-so-much-more, surpasses me so significantly. It feels so intense to be in contact with a mind that sharp." Kara refilled their glasses, "Then maybe you only feel some kind of respect for his thinking abilities and it's nothing more than that?" Dominique almost bit an edge of her glass off when a hysteric cramp seized her jaw. "Oh I wish it were like that. Maybe it was like that at the very beginning, but then in a matter of hours it all became so much more complicated. I think I realized how I feel when I unlocked that door. I thought I was such a bad person I could even leave Amber there for a while – I was still going back with the help later – but then it hit me that one person I could never leave behind was Sherlock."

Dominique went to the open window and climbed on a window-sill lighting a cigarette. Kara raised her brows quizzically, "Does your landlord allow smoking?" Dominique waved nonchalantly, "He is drooling all over every time he meets me in the hall, I could make a fire in the middle of the kitchen floor and he would only smile pleasantly and offer to stand by with a fire extinguisher."

"I see," Kara mused, "so it's not that hard to sustain a smoking habit in London these days." Friends giggled, then Dominique sighed exhaling a puff of smoke "Anyway, I was so intent on finding someone smart and interesting that I never actually gave it another thought. And it turns out when a man is that intelligent he apparently loses any ability to feel". She looked out of the window wistfully, then blurted, "and he spoiled all other men for me. Like it wasn't enough he was so immensely brilliant, no, he just had to be the handsomest man I've ever met. A fucking Botticelli painting with all that damnable curls. Damn all his body parts, I say." She drew on the cigarette several times in a row and finally stated, "I thought I will never fall in love because there can be no man to captivate me strongly enough, and now it turns out I will never fall in love because I am already in love and with no hope of reciprocity at all."

Kara frowned, "I think we will need more wine."

* * *

When Dr. John Watson heard the whole story about Sherlock's prison break from Lestrade first of all he felt guilty of course. He should have been by Sherlock's side and protected him. Several days later with the delicate help of his gentle wife, Mary, John managed to get rid of the pangs of guilt and decided to pay Sherlock a visit sometime next week. Two weeks later his cloudless marital happiness was disturbed by another call from Lestrade. "John, you need to talk to him," the DI seemed really distressed, "He behaves unusually weird – even for him, that is."

This time John didn't give his wife a chance to quench his guilt with perfect home bliss and rushed out of the apartment at once. The flat at 221b Baker Street was dark and empty. John occupied his former chair and texted Sherlock. Approximately an hour later his tall and lanky friend threw the door open and fell on the floor in a bony heap. John hurried to lift him up, habitually started checking Sherlock for injuries and then realized the world's only consulting detective was simply drunk. And it didn't seem to be the first time this week.

It took some time to revive Sherlock with strong tea and cold water. John looked at his friend in horror. Sherlock was even thinner than usual, deep shadows surrounded bleary eyes, dark curls were a complete mess. But in a way he was more open than John ever recalled him to be, thanks to alcohol, no doubt. "I can't understand this," Sherlock repeated over and over, which shocked John who knew perfectly well his brilliant friend hated repetition – and could understand pretty much everything. _Except for emotions, _John thought suddenly, _Ohhh. _

Sherlock sipped a little tea and looked in the cup suspiciously, "Need something stronger."

"No, you don't," John shook his head, "At least not until you explain what's going on."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, "Fine, you want to know? I will tell you. Basically it's all your fault!"

John was nonplussed so he simply shrugged and allowed Sherlock to continue. He knew his friend needed to blow off the steam. Sherlock for once seemed relieved, he was talking fast, almost his usual self again.

"Before I met you I never even thought about feelings. All my sexual encounters in Cambridge were experiments driven by curiosity. I knew I felt no emotions and wasn't bothered. And then you came and started trying to make me feel guilty for not caring, you said friends protected people. You showed me how to care, made me realize I really had friends and I cared about them. And Moriarty used that against me so I should have been warned off this path forever." Sherlock sounded amused now, "But then I returned from the dead and found I still cared for you, this strange thing they call affection didn't go away. And then you left me but I didn't feel like you betrayed me. I actually wished you to be happy. And in fact at the time all this happened I didn't even fully comprehend my feelings were there – it's become clear only in retrospective, you see? I basically lied to myself about my own feelings until I was left alone and had to face it all and analyze it because there was nothing else to do. "

A long pause followed and John just felt compelled to put in his two cents' worth, "First of all, there never was time when you felt nothing. I think you just couldn't find someone worthy of your feelings so you suppressed them completely, and then, however immodest it sounds, I turned up and things started to change. Well, that's just friendship, Sherlock. And it's only natural you wished me happiness. You and I aren't gay, for God's sake, it's not that kind of affection everyone seem to imagine between us, we are just good friends, no matter what people used to say before I married. Although some still think I cheat on Mary with you."

Sherlock frowned, "So there are different kinds of affection, is that it? Different kinds of …" he paused, swallowed with difficulty, "kinds of love?" John smiled, "Sure. And it's one thing to find a good friend – it's incredibly important of course, and nice – but it's just very much different from when you find a soulmate, a life partner. So as you didn't feel I betrayed you when I married, you shouldn't feel so surprised now you found someone you can have feelings for as well, and of course it's nothing like you are betraying me. That is just a different kind of feelings, not at all just friendship." And then John showed that keen insight for which Sherlock found him interesting in the first place, "So what I gathered from what Lestrade had been telling me her name is Dominique, right?"

Sherlock relaxed and slid down along the back of the couch, "Dominique," he breathed slowly caressing every syllable of the name with his voice. John really, really wanted to give his obviously suffering friend a hug but decided to clear things first, "And you think you two can't be together, why?". Sherlock sat abruptly watching the good doctor in surprise, "John, you are amazing," he offered shyly. Dr. Watson felt smug, "I do tend to think so myself".

* * *

The room was gradually filled with clubs of smoke and empty bottles. As befits a good friend Kara tried to get Dominique disappointed at least about something in Sherlock. "Think about this from purely practical point of view," she suggested, "as far as you know he spends all his time solving crimes. So he probably has no free time. Would you be able to be with a man who is unavailable most of the time and then, like, breaks into your flat at 3 o'clock in the morning, cold and tired and crashes asleep." Dreamy look in Dominique's eyes told Kara she was still getting nowhere close to the desired effect.

"How do you think he would treat you? If he despises everything ordinary – so no going out, no flowers, no holding hands." That seemed to get closer to the point but then Dominique smiled and said, "Well I would agree on talking and just being together if I knew he had feelings for me."

Despairing Kara grabbed at a straw that didn't seem plausible even to herself, "Alright, imagine any meeting with your friends or family, you'll have to go alone every time as he wouldn't go – and even if he did, he could hurt everyone with his deductions. Could you forfeit your friends?" Dominique frowned at that thought but stubbornly remarked, "I would never even contemplate the idea of losing you but in fact as you said yourself he could be busy with his cases most of the time – and I could meet my friends then." Kara drank more wine but it didn't help a lot. She didn't actually want to discourage her friend from love on the whole and she could see there was no use trying to cast a slur upon Sherlock as Dominique was still wearing the pink glasses that are so typical for the earliest stages of infatuation. It just was so unusual for her friend to be that deep in feelings. Kara briefly entertained the idea of finding Sherlock and giving him a nice thrashing for breaking her best friend's heart. But then again if a man had no feelings then even beating him within an inch of his life wouldn't help.

* * *

The more Sherlock sobered the gloomier he became. "I feel stupid," he complained, "maybe this is why I tried to evade feelings in the first place, they cloud my mind, I can't think clear enough, I don't even want a new case – all I want is to sulk all day and get drunk so that I don't feel this tearing despair." John couldn't help but chuckle at which Sherlock gave him a most evil stare. "Sorry," John tried to explain, "but it's really ridiculous you knowing her for just a couple of days most of which you spent talking through the wall – and here you are pining over her like the most tearful Victorian novel heroine I can imagine."

Sherlock just shrugged, "I can't help it, God, John, it is preposterous – me, of all human beings, not able to control myself?" John agreed, "And mind, there were times I wasn't really sure you are human at all." He looked compassionately at his devastated friend, "And I still don't see why you can't simply go over to her place and talk to her."

"How could she possible forgive me!" Sherlock spat bitterly, "I clearly stated I couldn't feel anything and nothing would make me do that." John smiled tenderly, "Well that again shows us how great Sherlock Holmes lacks certain knowledge of women." Sherlock glared but John wasn't finished, "She would be really happy you broke your self-inflicted pledge of callousness for her. At first she might be angry, but believe me, if she feels the same she would forgive you happily."

Sherlock suddenly looked haggard, "And what if she doesn't feel the same?"

* * *

Dominique decided to go back to work when there was still one week left of her vacation. She cynically decided to consider the week in the cell as a part of her rest as well. In the headquarters several surprises awaited for her – she was absolutely free from her former chief now, had her own cozy office – and had to report only directly to Mr. Holmes Senior. Dominique couldn't decide if she was happy about this or furious as hell – so she just turned on the computer that was much more powerful than her previous one, checked that all her data had been transferred to this new toy and dived in the plentiful tasks that gathered during her absence.

It wasn't unusual that she stayed at work late – happened often previously. The building wasn't locked for the night, those with the necessary clearance were in and out 24/7. Dominique realized what time it was only when her neck and shoulders started cramping violently. She stretched, her eyes lazily skimming the darkened room where the only source of light was a table lamp, reluctantly decided 2 o'clock in the morning was an appropriate time to finally go home and rose from her seat locking the computer. She was standing near the desk fumbling in her purse for the keycard when the automatic lock beeped and the door swung open.

First thought Dominique grabbed at was _This has to be Holmes Sr_. But when the tall thin man stepped in the ring of light from the lamp there was no mistaking the younger brother for the elder one. His huge eyes on an even thinner face than she recalled seemed catlike, almost shining in the semi-darkness of the office.

"What? How?" she cursed her clumsy tongue and tried to state her thoughts more clearly. This time it went slightly better, "Where did you get the key?" He opened his mouth but her mind was gathering speed and she didn't let him utter a single syllable, "I am being obtuse, it could have been only from your brother. What kind of sick game is this?"

"It's not a game," he was serious and a bit wistful. "I need to talk to you and my brother just spared me the necessity to wait for you sitting on the stairs to your apartment. Where I have been sitting for a couple of hours when he decided to be charitable. And before that I have been sitting on the porch but then your landlord took pity on me."

Dominique felt hot blood hurriedly surge to her cheeks, "But why… " she realized she didn't know how to end this question. Sherlock bit on his lower lip obviously reading her mind, "Why was I waiting there? Why didn't I just leave and come back later? Why didn't I try visiting on your day off – or while you were on vacation?" She just nodded, "All of that – and more – but we can leave that off for now. What did you want to talk about?"

Their eyes were now fixed on each other so intensely it should have hurt. She dug her nails in the edge of the desk steadying herself, her heart was not only thumping, it seemed to swing in her breast like a wicked pendulum, making her lose her balance. Sherlock locked his hands behind his back, he looked frozen from head to toe. If Dominique knew him better she would have realized the great consulting detective was as close to being afraid to speak as he could possibly get. He drew a deep breath and plunged in a tirade like into cold water, "I know you heard what I said back at the castle, that caring isn't an advantage. I know you think I have no feelings and I am not capable to have any. Also I think by the generally accepted norms the time we spent together is considered insufficient for the feelings to appear. Or at least insufficient for what is usually defined as 'something serious'. I understand I mislead you, and I did that on purpose. But since that day I have been thinking a great deal and I came to a conclusion I simply was afraid to become vulnerable because of the feelings I had. The feelings that developed for you in that scanty amount of time we had been communicating. And although I still fear that I will become vulnerable and unstable succumbing to these feelings – I am willing to give it a try. " He stopped and fetched his breath, hesitated but still continued, "Will you give me a chance?"

She closed her eyes as if absorbing his words with the whole surface of her skin. _What do I do now? He hurt me, surely I have to get back at him, pretend I don't care, make him suffer – isn't that what women are supposed to do in such situations? No, fuck that, that's not me, I am not like this, I do have feelings for him and I am not going to pretend._

Sherlock stared at Dominique like a deer caught in the spotlights. She was obviously making up her mind but he saw no clues as to which decision she was coming. The great detective found it almost impossible to believe but failing to deduce Dominique's reaction felt intriguing not disappointing. He almost missed the moment when she suddenly stepped forward, her fingers bashfully slid up against his forearms coming to rest on his shoulders, she tilted her head slightly to the left and kissed him chastely on the lips, her skin barely brushing against his. Dominique's lips were dry and felt like velvet and Sherlock suddenly shuddered all over as if electrocuted. She started and almost recoiled from him but Sherlock was already hugging her tighter and the kisses were multiplying, shallow and almost frightened at first, then more confident, deeper and less broken. And then it was just the kiss, passionate, wet, overwhelming, their tongues sliding and entwining smoothly and insistently.

This kiss rendered them both trembling and incredibly weak, somehow it felt so natural when they sank to their knees still locked in a tight embrace. His lips slowly tracked her jaw line, then lingered on her vulnerable throat, kissing and sucking became more intense as Sherlock found himself growing flushed and impatient. He carefully moved one of his hands down along Dominique's spine and the other on the nape of her head and lowered her gently on the carpet (a very soft carpet, for a second he could see Mycroft smirking in his head but then the vision was gone). Dominique tightened the embrace making him lie flush atop her. Sherlock groaned when his erection touched the taut flesh of her inner thigh despite the layers of fabric and returned his attention to her mouth ravishing it with almost cruel force. And from then on they were frantic, ridding themselves of the remnants of their clothes, struggling to become one, unbreakable whole. When he entered her gently her breath hitched and Dominique opened her eyes wide staring into nothingness first and then focusing on Sherlock's unblinking fascinated gaze. Taking into account scanty sexual experience of both this was a revelation. Neither realized how bright the flame will burn in their nerves and veins. Neither imagined sex with someone you truly love can be so different from the intercourse with just someone who is willing.

Minutes – or decades - later orgasm suddenly shattered through Dominique and she cried out losing control and never caring someone could hear. Feeling her tighten and spasm around him was what undid Sherlock, he moved faster, jerked his hips for the last few times and then exploded with a soft growl. No self-control was left in him after that and he fell heavily on top of Dominique who didn't seem to mind, hugging him tenderly, still lost in her own bliss.

Gradually they began to return to reality, Dominique flinching when she sensed the buttons of her crumpled shirt becoming impressed on her back, Sherlock realizing however soft the carpet he still managed to get a severe rug burn on his knees. And still they smiled gently to each other, embraced tighter as neither had the courage to let go and kissed taking their time and caring only about finally being together. All wounds would heal easier now, they knew it.

Sherlock finally regained his thinking abilities. He gently cupped her chin and kissed her one more time, feeling this process was so intoxicating he could dedicate weeks to it. But not here.

"So my flatmate got married and moved out," he whispered, "would you like to take a look at my empty and forlorn place?" Dominique smiled complacently, "I think I can be persuaded".

And if such amount of sheer willpower they spent on getting up, dressing and hailing a cab while keeping at least a half-decent distance between them was spent on peaceful purposes – this world would have become a much better place for everyone. But as it was – the world has only become a better place for the two of them.


End file.
